Tomorrow is my last day of school. I’m finishing up 22nd grade, and in all likelihood I will only enter a classroom again on the teacher side of the desk. Weird, no?
I will have to pick up my last paycheck, surrender my keys, and go to the registrar’s office to make sure they mail me my diploma once it’s printed. Another master’s degree! One thing that is certain about the life of a person with two master’s degrees: at some point, a plan was changed. One does not get two of these things on purpose.
When my husband & I get a roomier place to live, we should put up a Wall o’ Degrees, everything from high school on. Between the two of us, that will be eight of them. Adding up to 46 years of schooling. Yes, that’s right, FORTY SIX YEARS. If our combined schooling were a person, it would be in the thick of its midlife crisis right now.
I don’t think I mentioned yet on this blog that I have a teaching gig for next Fall: an online fiction workshop for UC Davis Extension. I will try out the teaching creative writing thing. Meanwhile, I am looking into joining a writing group in San Francisco this summer. I am hoping it will give me (1) deadlines and (2) human contact, otherwise I am likely to turn into a smelly grunting hermit who has been working on the same paragraph for weeks on end. For the sake of my sanity and my marriage, I will try to avoid that.
(The biggest threat to my productivity right now is Super Mario Galaxy 2 for the Wii. What a fun–and graphically stunning–video game! I love Yoshi so much. If only I could eat my enemies whole and shit them back out as candy in real life…)
The last of the copyediting stuff for 13 rue Thérèse happened last week. I am not quite sure what happens next. I’m guessing I’ll get to see sample pages of the layout? As a publishing virgin, this whole process is very mysterious. I will say this: making a book is more work than you can possibly imagine. Writing the damn thing, as much of your blood as you pour into it, is totally the easy part. Submitting it is the worst part. What happens after someone buys it is a very peculiar process. Your dream gets fashioned into a product. Your reclusive, naked forest child is scrubbed clean; taught to speak, smile, and shake hands; given a haircut, a nice suit, a pitch; then sent out into the world to sell himself. It is a great gift for your little savage, but also a great act of violence against him.
I guess anything worth doing is like that; anything worth doing makes you into a different person.